About Meg C. DeBoe

I am an author of children’s books and raising two crazy kids with my accomplice – I mean, husband. My blog, https://dearcrazykids.wordpress.com/about/, is letters to the kids about their shenanigans.
I am a native of the Washington, DC, Metropolitan Area and all that comes with it; I take the monuments for granted, can’t drive in the rain or snow, and I hate the Cowboys.
I love my family and feel for some bizarre reason I can’t identify that it is my responsibility to remember all the important parts of life – the little things – for their benefit.
I have authored 6 children’s books available on Amazon.com: The Kissy Momster, Underkissed, Let’s Move!, Don’t Poop On Me, and I Love You When You're Stinky; and one available on NCEA.org: J is for Jesus. More to come!

Then we went to Cirque du Soleil, which was amazing and much enjoyed by all…

Sunday we went to a local Pups & Pilsners event. There were many brews and many breeds; some delicious and all cute, respectively.

Followed by a trip to the local sporting goods store where Buddy happily announced to a gentleman shopper that said shopper had “a really big nose.” Buddy was clearly impressed and said it like, “congratulations! That’s awesome!” I swiftly abandoned him in the aisle and pretended not to know him. Unfortunately, he came right up to me and took my hand, addressing me publicly as his mother. Dang. I apologized to the gentleman (who was audibly laughing, thank goodness) and talked to Buddy about how complimenting people is nice, but you shouldn’t just pointing out various body parts.

We topped the whole weekend off with a little fishing at the local watering hole. Buddy caught his first fish…

Both Kitten and Buddy caught 3 fish, their Dad caught 2, and I caught a pair…of children’s shoes. Spiderman sandals to be precise. They were floating in the lake, so I pulled them out. No big deal. Except that to Kitten it was a huge deal. “My mom caught shoes!” she announced to every bystander. Like I’m some magical being that can pull fashion out of a lake. You know, King Arthur only got a crumby sword.

It was a good weekend. I woke up this morning contemplating my desire for a longer one, when I heard the following…”Oh boy, this is going to be painful. This is going to be really painful!” I was still in bed, which meant I had to make a choice: 1) get out of bed and investigate/intervene, or 2) stay in my comfortable spot and assess the damage audibly by the size of the forthcoming ‘thunk’.

I stayed put. Advertisements of pain were grossly exaggerated and the perpetrator decided to pursue a more dangerous method of dismounting the bunk bed next time. See? They didn’t need me at all…

Like this:

Most of our middle-of-the-night transactions with you guys are pretty banal; you feel sick, you can’t find very special thing x, you had a bad dream. Your father and I stumble
through the appropriate parental responses in bleary fashion.

However, sometimes you deliver up a gem in the middle of the night that really should go down in the annals of history. That night, for example, when Buddy appeared like an apparition
in our darkened bedroom doorway and uttered these enlightening words: “I wear socks on my feet.”

“Um…That’s great, buddy. How about you go back to bed?” And without another word he turned around and disappeared from whence he came.

Wtf?

And again, a few weeks later as your father and I put ourselves to bed unusually late on a weekend night, Kitten stumbled into the room, making little hiccupping sounds.

“Kitten, are you ok?” Your father, alarmed, wrapped her in his arms and sat with her on the side of the bed. Her shoulders bounced up and down as she…bawled? “Sweetie, are you
crying or laughing?”

And then she threw her head back and shook with laughter. She could not control herself! She had the giggles and they would not let go. She didn’t say anything accept ‘I don’t
know’ when asked why she was laughing. She just laughed for about 3 solid minutes. Then I took her by the hand and brought her back to bed, where she curled up and slept.

It is, perhaps, pertinent to mention that sleep walking and sleep talking run liberally in your father’s family. Your father, many years ago, sat bolt upright in bed in the middle
of the night, startling me awake, and said, “Rainbow Lynn!”

“What??” I asked.

“Rainbow Lynn.” He repeated.

“Rainbow? Like the colorful arch in the sky?”

“Yes.” He said.

“Lynn? Like the name?”

“Yes.” And then he laid back down and started snoring. Wtf, indeed.

I was awake for a solid hour trying to puzzle that one together. In the morning he recalled none of it. Maddening.

I am positive he still does such things, but I am blissfully unaware, having invested in a healthy supply of earplugs. But it’s harder to ignore the human that laughs their way
into your bedroom at night, so I imagine I will get to enjoy the midnight stylings of my interesting children for the foreseeable future.

Like this:

I’ve been living in a bubble. A bubble of I don’t know whose creation. A bubble where racism is a radical idea held by the few and certainly not where I live. I am not lonely in my bubble. There are lots of us in here.

But it’s leaking. Expelling air at an incredible rate.

You see, the interior of this bubble is lined with every time I didn’t experience racism. One of my best friends in high schools was black and I did not experience her discrimination, so clearly racism didn’t exist. One of my best friends and roommates in college was black and I did not experience her discrimination, so clearly racism didn’t exist. My children’s first best friends in their lives were black and I did not experience their discrimination, so clearly racism didn’t exist. I lined my bubble with these comforts. If racism existed at all it did not exist here.

And then there was a news story; racism, death. And another. And dozens more. In places not that different from where I lived. And it poked holes in my bubble. And then my friends, my black friends with whom I’d lined my bubble, they told me they were afraid. For themselves and for their children. And I looked at their babies, whom I have held and loved, and thought:

They are no different than my children. Why do they need to be afraid?

And my bubble came crashing down around me.

I look at my son, with his red hair and bright blue eyes. I look at his best friend with his black hair and dimples that melt me. And without my bubble I see that they will be treated differently. And it makes me scared. And furious.

There are two sets of standards. Two sets of rules. Justice is not color blind. America is not equal. Our bubbles only make things worse.

I look at my daughter, with her blond, tangled mop of hair. I look at her best friend with her black, beaded braids. And without my bubble I see…I see love. Despite my lack of bubble, I still see love.

Because racism is not naturally occurring. It is taught and learned.

We need to learn to love like children. We need to be taught that the color of our skin or the way we pray or what language we speak are not symptoms of evil. We need to realize that neither love nor evil discriminates.

And the only way to stamp out indiscriminate evil is with indiscriminate love.

Bathroom doors have always been a problem. In your school the bathrooms have no stalls; just three little potties in a big room (which is literally a nightmare of mine, by-the-way). I can see how you would find closing the bathroom door unnecessary after that. But, sometimes bathroom door closing is appreciated. Say – for example – at an office Christmas party at a co-worker’s house when you stood, pants-less in the bathroom doorway to inform me you’d gotten that piece of lint off your junk. “My doodle’s all clean now, Mom! Mommy? It’s clean! See?” Good times.

You frequently have to be reminded to close your car door. One fateful (and chilly) evening you forgot to close your car door even after being reminded and Daddy’s car was wide open for over 12 hours. Thankfully, the car was still there the next day, his car had turned off its power before the battery died, and there was no evidence that any wildlife had moved in…yet.

The real kicker has been the refrigerator doors. Our nice, new model in the kitchen has an alarm that sounds when the door is left open. Thank you, engineers and designers! Good call! Our older model freezer in the basement, however does not have such fail safes. It was much longer before we realized you’d left that one open. We lost food and almost lost the whole freezer – it was the smell from the over-worked motor that brought our attention to it. Epic fail, Buddy.

There is also the fun of our house looking like a scene from Poltergeist because you don’t close any drawers or cabinets. But, outside of that obvious up-side (do I need a sarcasm sign here? You hear it, right?), in general, I think I’m ready to “close the door” on this stage.

1. Stick your face in the centerpieces. If you’re lucky they will have candy in them. Jordan almonds, personalized M&Ms, little heart confections…chances are, there is candy in there; purple, sticky rockcandy sticks in the case of our sample wedding. When you reappear with sticky purple all over your cheeks, deny everything! “What?? Uh…I think it’s boogers.”

Always check the centerpieces! See? Candy!

2. Touch the cake. I mean, how could you not?? It’s just sitting there on that table in the corner at face-height, looking delicious. I dare you not to touch it. When you are caught with your icing-covered finger(s) in your mouth, deny everything! “I don’t remember anything! It wasn’t me! It was the cake’s fault!”

It's just you and me...

3. Make an impression. I mean a burned-in-to-their-retinas kind of impression. My go-to is inviting (forcing?) wedding guests to watch me pee – I’m really, really good at it. Mom likes to close the bathroom door on me, but if she’s talking on the other side of the door, I gotta know what’s going on right? So, I like to open the door again while I do my thing. Did I maybe pee a little outside of the bowl to perform that door-opening maneuver? Maybe. Did my mom have to clean half the bathroom after I was done? Probably. Did the mother-of-the-bride get a ticket to the Buddy Show? Definitely. And really, isn’t that what counts?

4. Dance, baby, dance! Remember that rock candy? Ya, get some of that. Hop yourself up on all the un-guarded sugar you can find. This is your time to shine! Is that dance floor wet? One word: Slip-n-slide. Outdoor wedding? I’m sure you can find some mud somewhere. Really challenge yourself, here. Remember, your parents are trying to socialize and appear normal, so capitalize on their distraction.

I'm going for formal sanitation worker...kind of shabby chic.

This is MY dance floor!

That should make just about any wedding experience pretty epic. Remember, Don’t let the shenanigans come to you – you go find the shenanigans!